Bookkeeping
by fan-nerd
Summary: Cleaning up messes in foreign countries is tiresome, especially with the missions he's handed. Interrogations, long nights, and the continued persecutions; typical. It was so hard to stay 'dead'.


_**A/N**: Wow, this story really got away from me. I sort of knew what I wanted to do, in a oneshot, but then I kept changing my mind, and all of the sudden I have this absolutely enormous oneshot. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this! Inspired by two most excellent fics—**Bail**, by Zessei, and **Barring Bookings, Bail and Bondage**, by ravenromance27—and also by playing **L.A. Noire**._

* * *

Two shadowy figures stood next to a large window, casually sipping at their drinks for a moment, before one of them pushed the other a file. "Burn it when you're finished."

His companion in the darkness nods, a small movement, before opening it up and frowning, immediately discontent. "What the hell is this?"

The first male smirks daringly. "I'm calling in a favor."

* * *

**_Bookkeeping_**

* * *

The sun is only just beginning to shade the horizon with an orange glow at this time of morning, and the man yawns, forcing himself awake. His alarm clock is just moments away from chiming, so he clicks it off, and kisses the woman beside him good morning. She smiles affectionately back at him, shifting and moving just the same. "I'll be down in a few," She assures him, listening as his legs swing off of their mattress, and he pads off to the bathroom.

There, he quickly showers, washes and combs his hair, brushes his teeth, puts on his deodorant and cologne, and then slid into his boxer-briefs and uniform pants, tucking a white undershirt into them. He slung the shirt to go with this uniform over his arm, laden with patches and pins, detailing his name, rank, department, and service, over his arm, and reached for a pair of socks in his dresser drawer, all before once again meeting his wife, this time in the kitchen.

He smells the eggs and bacon, and sincerely hopes that these ingredients are going on a bagel—it is, after all, one of his favorite choices of meal in the morning. Meanwhile, he busied himself with making coffee for the two of them, and listened for the telltale signs of his daughter waking up. She joins them in her pajamas just as the coffee begins to drip into the pot, and he ruffles her hair. "G'morning, princess," Her gap-toothed beam is always a pleasure, even when she's half-asleep.

His wife _does_ have bagel sandwiches for them, together with apple slices, he notes from the corner of his eye. The coffee finishes as she's setting down the plates, so he pours two mugs full, before adding cream to both. They sit and chat for just a small time before he has to go. His wife kisses him goodbye, and his daughter makes him lean down so she can too.

"Be careful out there, officer," She teases, although the warning is real enough, and officer Lance Gothard cannot afford to be careless in his line of work. Leaving Marie and Tiffany, his six-year-old daughter, without husband or father was something he had no desire to do. However, the business of apprehending criminals was not typically so kind to the desires of those in law enforcement.

Working in Vice was just as risky, if not more, than working in Homicide, if only because it brought him neck and neck with some of the individuals that ran the gambling rings, the drug cartels. While clocking in at daybreak was frustrating, it was his long nights that beleaguered him more than anything. Today was a day not quite rare, but still tiresome, in that he would be working from eight a.m. today until eight a.m. tomorrow, because the man meant to take over his post for the second half of the day was on vacation, and there weren't enough people within their branch employed to cover the shift. Budget cuts were hurting them something fierce, but he was a loyal man, and tried very hard not to complain. The tradeoff was, in hindsight, he'd be off for the weekend, but that was optimistic thinking. There was almost always something that needed to be done, around there, and it seemed no one was focused on such matters internally, concerning themselves with the workings of their enemies instead—criminals of all creed.

Shaking his head, he finished his fifteen-minute drive to the station, parked his car in the necessary spot, and sighed, steeling himself for the day. Although he'd remarked to himself that they'd needed more people here, in the Providence, Rhode Island branch, there were men and women alike, running around like chickens with their heads cut off, and it seemed there was never an end to the influx of people trying to sort their various cases out. Right now, there were a couple on his desk with leads that had come to a quick halt, with no evidence to pursue them, and no witnesses to support their initial claims. Sometimes, this was such a thankless job, but the rare occasions that put someone terrible to justice and earned even a moment of gratitude kept him going.

"There you are, y'big prick," His partner thumped him on the back, getting a wince for his efforts. Justin Richardson was a few years older than him, unmarried, but he was a good man. He had a head perfect for smoking out those cunning insiders, and Gothard himself thought he might've fit in more appropriately in the FBI, as one of the suits, or maybe even in the CIA, but Richardson assured him that he was content here, feeling that they needed him more than any of those suits ever would. "Boy've I got the best goddamn news you've heard all day."

Lance chuckled, patting his partner back. "The day's just started, but what've you got?" It's rare for Justin to be in spirits this high, so the case must be one that'll make both of their careers. The folder that was handed to Gothard detailed the case notes for a bust, which immediately made his blood hum, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The names listed there are big and small—Lorenzo Alvaretti, the Mexican man who's been flitting under their noses, peddling marijuana, and rumor had it, something harder these days. It didn't matter that state regulations were loosening up their hold on the former if they could pin him with something a whole lot worse. Randy G—last name unknown, a man who they'd once tried to nab for burglary, and upon further investigation found that he might've been involved in sex trafficking. Then there were Frank Williams, John Lutts, Watts Jefferson—all the nobodies affiliated with a couple of different groups. It seemed like something big was going down, if their source was to be trusted. "Well, I'll be damned. You never do disappoint, with the big news."

"Correction—I _never_ disappoint," Richardson boasted, and got a round of chuckles from anyone that had listened to him. His record was fine enough, but his slips and fumbles had been major, but he could take a couple of rounds of verbal tossing, and dish it out just the same. "So, whatd'ya say? We in?"

Gothard grinned and thumped him, like he'd been thumped in greeting. "What time do we need to be there?" His question was all the response his partner needed, howling in laughter excitedly.

x

The brunette hated these kinds of messes, and every time his confidant sent him to clean one up, for 'educational purposes', he heaved a sigh, and got ready for the impending threats of violence, haughty words, flashes of weaponry, and so on and so forth. "Calling in a favor my ass," He murmurs to no one in particular, surveying the warehouse where he knows the deals are supposed to be taking place this evening. He's been informed ahead of time that the police will probably be here as well, and an attack from both sides is something he'd like to avoid at all costs, especially considering his way of getting here hadn't exactly been through the typical methods.

It's not particularly cold, this evening in May, but it's a hell of a lot colder than it had been in Italy, his place of departure. Honestly, he should've been there, keeping a watch on happenings there, because there was something just as disconcerting happening on that soil, or he could've been waiting to see what became of his senior's mess in Japan, but _no, you have to go and clean this up for me, because I promised someone a favor. Oh, and do you mind the teensy weensy little condition I gave him? Thanks, you're so fantastic for doing this for me_. He thought the words in a sarcastic tone, pissy about what he had to do, for several reasons.

He'd heard about Alvaretti and Randy G were _truly_ criminals, and the crimes they'd committed were more than enough to make his stomach turn. While he'd been in transit here, he'd been thinking about that, and found that, maybe—just maybe, he didn't want the other man to start thinking he _enjoyed_ this shit—his confidant had been right to leave this to him.

Suddenly, his senses picked up on the clicking of shoes against pavement, as people began to file into that warehouse. He'd let them get comfortable first, despite his angry urge to rush in there and ruin their night before they'd even started talking. He knew there would be young women in there, keeping quiet for fear of their lives, and talk of drugs and mysterious things he knew about, and wished no one else did, because of how exceedingly foul they were.

Ten, fifteen minutes had passed, and the scenery outside of the warehouse was blank and peaceful—simply the lot of a construction company by day that probably belonged to someone one of these men knew. Tightening his gloves on his hands, he worked very hard to keep the flames low and dormant, so as not to give himself away, both in identity, and with regards to his keeping cover.

He strode through the door, disguised, shivering and beaten, like an addict after the scent of his next hit. Everyone, as he'd expected, became riled up and got concerned, but did not seem to take him for much of a threat. After all, he wasn't very tall, and he was hunched over and twitching to boot. "What're you doin' here, y'piece a shit?" Alvaretti, tan, well over six feet, less than muscular, but not fat. Fiery dark eyes, grimy street clothes, and pockets lined with money.

"S'wrong, y'know," He slurs in English, careful to keep the intonation of his native language out of his voice. "What y're…doin'."

The punch that flew at his face probably would've made him laugh if he weren't so busy. "Who're you, huh?! You doped up asshole, y'think you can come in here and tell me how to run _my_ shit? How'd you get here, anyways? Ah, who cares, I'm gonna take you out, 'sides. Benny! Throw this shit out where nobody'll find 'im when I'm done!" One of his men, then—he reminded himself to write it down as a note, later. Heaving a sigh on the ground, the brunette hurriedly avoided the trajectory of the bullet.

"You shouldn't've done that," The young man pushed himself off of the ground and flattened his hands, turning his very fingers into weapons and digging them into Alvaretti's gut. "I mean, I was never gonna let you all off with a warning, but now I've got fair grounds to attack you." Mentally, he's a little despaired by how much of his English has become peppered with such words, and curses his tutor without honest venom. The man is down for the count, and now there are lots of voices, as the people in the warehouse begin to panic. Nigh effortlessly, he knocks out all of the criminals here, and after he's finished with that, he goes to comfort the young women that are crying, too young and pretty to be trapped in a place like this. "Hey, sorry for the scare," He says, as he's tying all of the men up. "If you'll wait just a bit longer, the police'll be here."

One girl, who can't be any older than thirteen, looks up, her watery hazel eyes filled with gratitude. "Do you have to go? Are you a bad man, too?"

He's unable to come up with a wonderful answer, but he sighed and spit something out anyways. "Well, something like that. Honestly, I wish I _could_ go, but I've got some business with the police this evening."

"But I don't want you to go to jail," She continues, and he startles, just before laughing. She reminds him so much of one of the kids back home.

"Yeah, trust me, I don't wanna go either," He replies, just as the door bursts open, and the police shine flashlights around the place. Putting his hands up, he smiles tiresomely and listens to their words, as though he's never heard them before.

"Lance Gothard, Rhode Island Police Department! You're under arrest for prominence to the scene of the crime! Men, get in here and see what you can find, while we take these boys back!" Gothard comes forward to take the willing person-of-interest, the young brunette in the center of the chaos in this warehouse. As the other policemen survey the area, they find what they'd expected to find—illegal substances, the girls they'd been trafficking, and the high and low profile mooks. The one who isn't tied up—he's a mystery they know nothing about, but something about him screams that he must be taken in to the cop. Another man, taller, older, comes and ushers him back to a private car, separated from the unconscious others they knew well.

"I don't know who you are, but you've gotten yourself mixed up in some pretty crazy shit, kid," This cop says, and the brunette agrees with a strange sort of smile.

"You're telling me," He replies, feeling tired. "Do they serve tea in holding cells?"

x

The young man sips at the tea that someone has managed to bring him, looking rather dignified in his holding cell. So far, no one that he'd taken out has woken, so they have no form of information on him. No one got his name, and all the girls, while spooked, had determinedly said nothing about him. It was driving Gothard absolutely mad, and he was already running thin on patience, as he'd been up nearly twenty-four hours now.

Richardson, his partner, picked up on the mood as he swung back in, fresh from getting off of the phone with someone from the hospital. "No good. Alvaretti's the only one that's coming out of it, and all he remembers is beatin' on the fuckin' kid til he got whaled on himself. Didn't even get a good look at his face, the bastard. You got anything?"

"Only that this kid's got a real taste for some damn special tea," This was the fourth cup they'd offered him, by four in the morning, and had earned complaint about the previous three, because of how flat, bold, or tasteless the others had been. "Hasn't said a word other than pleasantries this whole time. Hasn't even taken his one call."

"Keepin' secrets from the police ain't real smart, kid," Richardson says, sounding paternal, much to Gothard's surprise.

"So I've been told," The 'kid' says around his sip. "Ah—I hope you two have some thick skin. I can feel someone rather tiresome coming." They share a glance among themselves at that, scowling. Gothard, pinching the bridge of his nose, hopes and prays that his daughter will never grow into such a cheeky brat, although his wife's quite the spitfire, so he wouldn't put it past her. Still, the warning shook them, and they tried not to show their jumpiness as a knock came at the door. Working in vice had trained both Gothard and Richardson to be prepared for the worst at all times, so they reached for their guns, just in case something were to happen, right here in police holding. However, their young 'guest' shook his head and warned them yet again. "Those won't help. It's better to just let him in."

They narrowed their eyes at him, but kept their hands on their guns anyways, opening the door tentatively. Just as it came open, it was practically slammed back in Richardson's face, as he'd been standing closer to the hinges. "Sir!" The new face, with seafoam green eyes full of emotion, and distinctively silver hair, was shouting the greeting at the brunette. His fingers, wrists, and ears were adorned with jewelry, and both of the cops were quite sure they could see a tattoo creeping from his sleeves, and although it was said often that cops were paranoid, it was hard to dismiss the impression he left on them as a risky character.

"Calm down," The brunette sipping tea commanded him quietly, and got immediate results. "They haven't taken anything, and I'm fine."

Gothard's mind was running a thousand miles a minute. He'd been respectfully addressing the kid that couldn't have been older than him, in that cell. It was the twenty-first century, so it was difficult to pin him as anything other than an employee, or something similar, what with the way he seemed to humble himself and practically grovel in the brunette's presence. Then again, maybe they were partners in crime, and that brunette, however outlandish it seemed, was the one who called the shots. Whatever the case was, all of this was making a case for the brunette to be filed as high profile, with all of his growing mysteries. "Richardson, you keep an eye on them. I'm going to speak to the D.A."

"You got clearance, hot shot?" His partner shoots back, and Gothard nodded, so he tossed up his hands. "Alright, just don't do anything stupid."

"I won't," The married man assures him, striding out of the office at a quick pace.

x

"You let them go over there?" The Italian young man seemed bewildered, gaping at the hitman with wide blue eyes, slamming his fist on the desk. "Are you _trying_ to create an international incident?"

"Oh, shut up," He toys with his own curly sideburns, smirking back at the younger male. "If I wanted to do that, I would've told them to attack somebody _important_. Right now, I'm trying to teach that brat a lesson. Lately, he's been getting a little bit ahead of himself."

"He was doing a spectacular job of running the place, and things had even been quiet here. Well, they were, until that job ended up getting one of Italy's most historic monuments _set on fire_. Luckily, someone was around to clean up the mess, because when _somebody_ spread the news of what had happened to the boss, all his closest went up in arms and hurried across the oceans!"

Smirking, the man propped up his feet. "At least things won't be boring, for the rest of the night."

The representative of one of their branch organizations shook his head. "It'll be a miracle if this doesn't end in a disaster."

x

Gothard ran a hand through his already messy hair, feeling more tired than ever. He took a moment while he went to the D.A.'s office to call his wife and let her know he'd be late, but she just smiled and let him know that she understood. He hung up before knocking quietly at Ms. Springer's door. "Come in," She said, and he opened the door slowly. "Gothard, huh. I heard you and Richardson did some good work last night. So, this about that?"

He shook his head, humbling himself. "Yes and no. Most of our work was finished _for_ us before we got there, by the kid we have in holding—we think this boy is either a criminal seeking revenge against Alvaretti and his men, or otherwise a vigilante. Probably foreign, by the look of him. On the young side—probably early twenties. I think you should come down and have a look, maybe ask a few questions."

She raised an eyebrow. "You never come up here for this kind of thing. Must be pretty serious."

"I think we may have a larger haul than we'd ever intended, but only if we can get the nut to crack," The cop said, bowing his head to her, and waiting beside the door, while she stood and joined him.

"Well, don't just stand there—let's go." They hurried back to the room, where Richardson was steadily working himself to insanity, trying to get the newest addition to their holding cell to be quiet and sit steady. Gothard couldn't have been gone more than twenty minutes, but this time, there was a boy, just a few years older than his daughter, with the volatile-looking, silver-haired foreigner. "Well, well, seems I got invited to the party here rather late. What've we got, Richardson?"

"Apologies, ma'am, it doesn't seem like anyone's gonna talk," He said, sounding genuine, for once. "For a bunch of brats, seems like they've got some awfully big stuff hidden under the rug, and they don't like the police very much."

"That's because your jobs are shitty, and you'll never be any good at keeping the peace, with your pansy-ass methods and lack of regulatory obedience," The silver-haired young man spat out the words, and then was quickly reprimanded by their tea-drinking vigilante. "And would you _stop_ drooling on my fucking shirt?!" This was directed at the kid latched onto his arm, with one eye closed and a mark on his face that Gothard decided he'd get someone to look into. He sent a message to a comrade here at the office, and hoped that they could get something—anything—to make this a case, or else be forced to let these young ones go.

"So, I hear you assaulted several criminals last night," Springer started her investigation, routinely ignoring the noisy distractions behind her.

The brunette behind bars shrugged. "They weren't exactly friendly to me either," There were bruises to prove that he'd been assaulted as well—it was a fair rebuttal. She knew she wouldn't get any information as to why he'd been there, or what his beef with Alvaretti was—the boys had already tried that.

"How'd you get here?" This route was far more likely to be successful. If he'd come in illegally, as she suspected that he had, they could pin him with that, and continue their investigations with anything else he might've been involved in.

"I flew," He said, but that was all. His brown eyes were smiling, however; she could tell he wasn't telling them _something_.

"Are you being bullied?" The kid was talking, and snorted before laughing. "I bet you are! Letting a girl bully you! Stupiiiiid."

This seemed to make the brunette feel even more tired, and he rolled his eyes at the boy, just moments before the one outside of the holding cell hit the young man over the head. Springer had been preparing to reconvene with Gothard and Richardson just moments before they were interrupted—another knock.

Richardson snorted and went for the door. "This farce just keeps getting more and more ridiculous." This time, it was a young woman, dressed smartly.

"Hello again," She seemed rather snarky with the brunette in the cell, that winced upon her greeting. "I'm his lawyer. My name is Hana Kurokawa." Her accent was distinctively Asian—just as thick as that boy's mesh of an accent, whatever it was. Every young adult in here had an accent, no one American, and there was no way to prove that they didn't have visas, or passports, or any other form of travelling document, because _they_ weren't here for holding, and the one that was, he was clean. His papers were in order, but something about them simply seemed off. For one thing, it seemed that no one was calling him the name printed on all of his important documents—Touya Sato. In fact, no one was calling him his name at all. Gothard and Springer both had made that note, and found it awfully suspicious. However, this young woman, she had the eyes and fire lit under her like any other lawyer they'd met. "I'd love to get my client out of here, before this place becomes more crowded than you'd ever desired." The policemen and woman found the statement curious, but nevertheless followed her as they took the brunette from out of his cell, and ushered him and the lawyer to a private room with Springer.

Richardson and Gothard tried to keep the other young men in the hall under control, as they and the young adults were all standing near the conference room. They struggled, with great difficulty, to hesitate from interrogating these young people, as they had no grounds, and as the awkward tension between them rose, two more people burst in, both of them amazingly calm, despite their locale.

"Heya," They're both tall and undeniably athletic—the blondish looking one had a bandage on his face, and the other has a scar on his, but their presence immediately made the silver-haired young man scowl.

"About fucking time," The one who'd arrived first said, ushering them to take a seat. "The bitchy lawyer even beat you guys here, and I figured you would've come together."

"Don't you talk about her like that," The lighter haired of the two newcomers was the one who said this, sounding stern. Gothard noted their interactions very carefully—it was obvious that they were more than simply friends, less than enemies, and there were too many of them now to assume that the silver-haired kid was the only one that listened to that brunette in the private room. "We had our own business to finish up first."

He wanted to ask a hundred things. Business? Affiliations? Calling that kid who looked like a teenager 'sir'? Why all of this seemed to be happening on the day he'd been working overtime? It was impossible to say. But he needed another cup of coffee. He left Richardson to watch them while he went to get something to eat in the break room, and was soon bombarded with questions from his peers. He was congratulated for work he hadn't done, and a case that had opened a whole new can of worms, despite its' initial close.

Mornings like this, these were the times Gothard contemplated changing careers, but knew that he would stay. Now, it was a matter of duty. He determined that he'd be looking into this, regardless of the result.

x

_I am going to murder Reborn in his sleep_, Tsuna thought to himself while he was in this room.

Hana still had no idea what they did for a living, nor did she care to know—all she knew was that it was dangerous, and Kyoko had called her from her office in Japan to ask for her help. Of course, when her fiancée had also asked, that had prompted her to move, even though she still felt ambiguously about Sawada. Those two had nothing but positive things to say about him, and they always had, so she figured she could do him this one favor—it seemed that whichever lawyer he typically called had been unavailable tonight, on such short notice. But all these fake names and facts were ridiculous. The melodrama and intensity was borderline insane, and all she wanted was to hurry up and crush the non-existent grounds they held, avoid a court case at all costs, and get the hell off of this side of the world.

As for himself, he very well could've gone about his business without ever having to see the police at all, but Reborn had said there was someone here that he wanted him to meet. At this rate, he'd be gone and back home before that happened, but just as he'd been thinking that, Springer stopped bombarding them with questions and looked up, smiling, sure that they were secluded in privacy.

"It's alright," She said, sounding a lot friendlier than she had even just moments ago. "You two are good—this was something of a test, I suppose. Reborn paid me to do this."

"I should've known," Tsuna murmured, letting his head fall to the table and groaning. "I'm sorry to have spent so much of your time to cater to his whims."

The woman tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, quite a lovely woman now that she'd gotten a chance to relax and stop glaring at them. "It's alright," She chuckled. "I didn't expect you to be such a tough cookie, or to be such a cutie. You remind me of my own son a bit."

"I don't even want to know, Sawada," Hana stood up. "But I'll be going. Oh, and, it looks like the monkey parade's gotten larger again. Seems like some of them are hanging around outside—they're a little more cautious than your favorites." Bowing a little to Ms. Springer, she gathered her things, and stormed out, like they'd been having furious discussion.

"I'll be in touch, Sawada," Springer winked before falling into her role yet again. "Now you listen to me, there may not be any evidence linking you to this bust, but I swear I'm going to find something to keep you here in the near future, so watch your back."

Tsuna began acting just the same, careful not to give his true feeling of relief away. Remaining sheepish, he hung his head and spared glances at his friends before they quieted themselves and filed out of the building. Gothard came back, and looked at his harsh boss, partner, and the young adults leaving, stuck in a moment. At the front door, there were several officers posted, heads down for some reason. Another Asian man was there, and he had sharp, focused gray eyes set on the brunette. Yet another male and female—probably twins, by the look of things—stood there, laughing. All the others gathered around the brown-eyed young man, forming a circle that was vaguely reminiscent of a hurricane. Just after the doors closed and they seemingly disappeared into the shadows, at a quarter 'til eight, Gothard turned to his superior.

She threw her hands up, looking exasperated. "We just didn't have anything to keep the kid here. Next time, make sure you bring me some hard evidence before you try to convict kids."

Gothard wanted to raise a thousand questions, but was too tired to think his arguments through properly. Richardson heaved a sigh, for one, and laughed. "What a night, eh?! What a fucking night."

Just before the married cop prepared to leave his superior be, he stopped her for a moment. "There's something about him. I don't know what it is, but my gut's telling me not to let this go." As though these words had been the trigger, the sound of bodies hitting pavement alarmed the three of them, and they rushed to the door, accompanied by some of their colleagues. There had to be at least twenty guards and patrolmen, foaming at the mouth, looking far worse for the wear than they should've. Recognizing one of the men twitching awake, with some sort of tape against his mouth, he roused the African-American officer. "Smith! What happened here?!"

"Attacked," Smith managed with a cough. "Couldn't…see…" His eyes lolled back and he fell unconscious yet again with a groan.

"You see! This has to have something to do with that Sato kid! This is no coincidence." Gothard insisted, and Springer grimaced, agreeing silently.

"You're in charge of building profiles for them," She generously offered him the task, but left a warning. "But don't take them lightly. Something tells me the only reason we held him here tonight was because he wanted to be caught. Seeing those faces again might be a daunting task, even for you. Sure you're up to it?"

The policeman shivered, and nodded tentatively, feeling sweat bead on his temple. He thought once more of Marie and Tiff, and hoped that they could forgive him for getting caught up in something spectacularly foolhardy yet again.

x

"So, how'd it go?" Reborn greeted them pleasantly as their private jet touched down in Italy hours later, full of people that should've been stationed in different places around the globe.

"Never again," Tsuna shivered, thinking of all the cold stares he'd been given, and endless rounds of questions. "I don't think I'm fond of the American northeast." Gokudera clapped him on the shoulder. Yamamoto similarly clapped him on the shoulder before flinging his arm around his two buddies, one smiling appreciatively, and the other grumpily muttering about it. Ryohei was the last to join their friendly little huddle, nearly knocking them over as he wrapped his arms around the three to hug them. "I'm glad you all got there to help me so quickly, even though I didn't need help."

"Your personal guard dog insisted," Hibari shot a warning glance at Mukuro, and they prepared to fight, just moments before Tsuna's arms kept them apart, daring one of them to issue a challenge. "Besides, I was promised a fight for my efforts, so I'll be expecting you in Namimori before the week is out."

"I'll be leaving now—I _did_ leave urgent matters here, after all," The mist says, fading away. His double, the young woman with long hair, came up and kissed her boss goodbye before joining him and disappearing into thin air.

Hana is with them too, and after she gets off of the jet unsteadily, she walks off and stands impatiently, waiting for Ryohei to come and drive her back home. When he takes too long chatting with his friends, she drags him off, leaving Lambo, who had been standing with her, looking around for something better to do. The older boys are busy, so he deems it more appropriate to force one of the drivers waiting by the airstrip to take him back to the castle, where I-pin might be, if she's on this side of the world.

Hibari always has someone from the Foundation to pick him up, and his jet is already running, simply waiting for him to get on. Without further ado, he hurries up the steps for that, and is on his way back to Japan.

On the ride back to the castle, his two closest friends and his tutor-turned-confidant were seated in a comfortably large limousine. The four of them often conducted business here, especially if they could get away from the main branch, and the children, for an hour or two. "What'd you learn?" Reborn questions his charge yet again, and earns a scowl and furrowed brows, despite his current good humor.

"I _learned_, not for the first time, that someone should stop alerting Mukuro and Hibari when something happens to me overseas," Tsuna conceded, slouching into the cushions of the vehicle, opening his hand expectantly as his self-proclaimed right-hand-man pushed a bottle of water into his palm. It'd happened so many times that he didn't even both insisting that he stop trying to pamper him after missions, and instead nodded his head in expressed gratitude. "Besides this fact, the reaction time to vice crimes on American soil is cautious—they want to be sure to catch them all, but are quite fragile in some of their tactics."

"And?" The darker-haired male prompts him, so the young man sighed and continued in his report, knowing full well that his guardians were listening and mentally taking notes as well.

"Sonia Springer seemed to be the most well-informed of our existences, thankfully. Also, I made sure to sweep the warehouse visually before I was taken in, and had someone else clean it up after I'd been escorted to the station."

"Well done. That it?" Reborn seems satisfied, so the brunette figures he's passed his little test, whatever the hell it'd been.

"Their tea and customs sucked," The words are a sign—it's certainly not the first time he's had to go to jail on foreign soil, whether it be for a test, or simply to suit Reborn's whims. He'd had to break out of a few, but even then, he'd been disguised, in hair color, eye color, and name, yet again. Those who sought to find him came to dead ends quickly, as the men in charge of foreign affairs quickly paid off the more corrupt cops, and made sure there would be no evidence pointing back to him. As he could see his home away from home, he pulled the ring from off of the necklace he frequently wore, and slipped it back onto his finger. "And the cop who brought me in? I get the feeling that he's not quite done with things yet. Nevertheless, I've _no_ intentions of this happening twice."

"Don't worry, Boss—I'll take care of anything bothering you," Gokudera tells him, beaming from his left. His taller friend is grinning, like he always is, on his other side. Although the silver-haired man has claimed his position of the right forcefully, Tsuna trusts both of them equally, and tries not to show favoritism between his friends.

"Maybe you should take a break for a while. I know those holding cells can really grate on the nerves," Yamamoto says, and Tsuna nods, thinking of taking a handful of painkillers and attempting to sleep through the night, but knew that such thinking was _highly_ optimistic, among the members of his family.

"Yeah," The short brunette closed his eyes for a moment, just before asking something he'd been meaning to, even before heading to complete this assignment. "So, why Sonia Springer? She seemed like a fairly earnest policewoman to me, so why go meet her, get her inadvertently involved, and risk getting the American police set on our trail?"

"You owed me a favor," Reborn reminded him, and his charge rolled his eyes before getting kicked sharply in the shin, and the assassin continued. "More than anything? You'd be called to the spotlight soon anyhow. Remember the Ducoz suite you'd been looking into recently? Turns out, they have connections with a gang on the south side of Rhode Island, and their way of getting back was gonna be to throw us in the fire, by the way of everyone's favorite annoyance." Lambo's part in their operation was to keep guard, and he'd done a fine job of mucking that up, getting himself held hostage and thankfully shutting his mouth about them, but he was crying and whining the whole time. Given enough time, he might've started cracking, but Tsuna had found them his retribution had been vengeful, to say the least, but their getaway was anything but clean. "Turns out, next time you stepped on the coast, they were thinking about calling their friends, Alvaretti and company." Everything made sense now, and the three in the car grew grim, furious with themselves for not making such decisions themselves. "Anyways, the only way to get Sonia to comply was to meet you in person, and make sure you were as sound as I'd said. Seems like she liked you, and you helped her take in someone she's been chasing around for years, so it was a fair trade, by all counts."

"I should've known you were pulling the strings carefully behind the scenes," Tsuna smiled a bit, thankful for his tutor not for the first or the last time. "I'm guessing you still want that nice espresso machine you've been nagging the staff to get."

"That's the spirit," The hitman says, reclining in his seat and smirking at his student. "Jet lag's probably destroying all of you, but here, it's nearly lunchtime." The boys groaned, but quietly agreed, their boss probably wanting anything but more socialization, as he looked about ready to pass out, but owed Reborn more than a few favors all over again.

x

Gothard stays up, wracking his brain. He sifts through every newspaper and record he can get his hand on, for the past few years. After he'd gotten home, he'd eaten, slept, and immediately begun his investigations. When his daughter got home from school, he deliberately took a break from work to play with her and help her with some of her homework, and thanked his wife for her continued support. He briefly told her about his previous evening and its' unexpected turn, and how he was currently following a nonexistent path to a seemingly nonexistent end. But he was determined to make ends meet.

For months, he pressed this beat, in the midst of the other minor arrests and fines he handle for work. Richardson saw his dedication and joined him, offering any form of evidence and word of mouth he could gather, but nothing trustworthy was turning up on those boys. During this time, the two of them had been marked by their co-workers as insane, working themselves overtime to the bone to go on wild goose chases for the boy, 'Touya Sato' and his band. He'd tried everywhere within the country, shortly after his release, and moved on to others later, but was treading in dangerous waters, not just messing with other police departments, but threatening the jobs of the suits, and his internal superiors.

Then, it seemed, a stroke of luck had blown the wind of favor in Gothard's way. This bust was similar to the summer's, even though the weather was far less favorable now, and the chances of the brunette's reappearance were slim to none. However, if he considered himself some sort of crusader, there was no doubt that he'd be there. Before it was all said and done, he was to be disappointed, but someone lurking around afterwards had trapped him, and he cursed himself for allowing his guard to fall.

"I suggest, that if you'll be looking further into this, that you find a better way to protect yourself, or otherwise, be willing to lose everything you've worked for," The voice was a thousand times slimier than any of those rowdy fellows from the station he'd met just over half a year ago. "I'm not as kind as some of those idiots, but I _do_ have a duty to uphold, you see. The work pays."

"You work for him," He figures—someone affiliated with Sato has a mark on him, for sticking his nose where they think it doesn't belong. "Why?"

"Well, that's a rather open-ended question," His mystery guest, shrouded in shadows, and disguised besides, not that the policeman knew that. He would remember his description and try to chase this man down this way, and would be horribly shocked to find Lewis Freeter dead over three months before this evening. "Let's go with the fact that it's the easiest method to kill time."

"You sick fuck," Gothard spits out, disgusted. "So what, you and your gang think you're hotshots, killing people and takin' out other groups, because you're bored?"

"Mmm, that'd be a personal opinion," The man says to him, slimier than ever. "Sato, was it? He's more of a…caring sort. Honestly, if you got to know him, you might find you're more alike than you think." The man clearly knew Sato well, but the way he'd phrased that rhetorical question made the policeman question his identity. He'd known all along that the probability of it being an alias was high. "But I digress. This is a warning. There are some around him, that aren't nearly so forgiving. Your wife—Marie, was it?—and your daughter, Tiffany, I'm sure they wouldn't like to come visit you in the hospital in a few days because you didn't listen to me," The man threatens him, and Gothard swallows, mouth feeling like it's suddenly full of lead. "I could make your life hell, right now, but I'll at least allow you some time to make the decision how this turns out. I'll be in touch, Gothard," The man says just before fog rushes in and masks his silent escape.

Although he was about ready to piss his pants, the cop merely slid to the ground, and hurriedly called his partner, telling him the details of the encounter before he could forget them.

It would be another two years before his investigations were anything close to fruitful, in the case of the young man named Sato, and those surrounding him.

x

"Hell no," Tsunayoshi was swamped with papers, and Gokudera was helping him as quickly as possible. Lambo was snoozing on the couch nearby, Haru and Kyoko were cooking happily, and running snacks to this office, but everything was in chaos—typical. "I don't _want_ the press on my ass. I thought I told you I wasn't going to run any more missions in America. Why couldn't you send someone else? I'm a little busy right now."

"_I'm sure your most loyal right hand'll help you out,"_ The hitman said to the twenty-something year old, his voice tinnier than usual because of the cell phone's poor reception. _"Besides, what's this anyways? I thought you still owed me about twenty-three favors?"_

"Fuck your favors," The brunette cursed, feeling especially tense because of all the paperwork that needed to be finished, and it was so much worse without Basil, or Futa. They'd gone to North Africa somewhere, to expand their reach there, while Yamamoto was in the Middle East. "What's to stop someone from pounding the alarm the second I leave, huh? It seems like, every time I go to stop some baby little rebellion or break up some no-name drug cartel, _everyone_'s gotta know about it."

"_Look, I promise this one's important. And if someone snaps a picture or two, because of some urban legend, let 'em talk. If you don't move, it's gonna be worse than one reporter that met with some drunk that worked for us until we forcibly removed him. We're talking Verde, and not just him, as slimy as he is—we're talking about a __**real**__ international incident here. The only other person I'd trust to do this job and not fuck it up is me, and I'm in Indonesia right now, doing something for you. So're you gonna do it or am I gonna have to make you?"_

Kyoko smiles brightly, leaving the steaming food in front of him, and he shakes his head, much to her disappointment. He mouths an apology her way before responding. "Alright. Alright, I get it. I'm going. Gokudera!" His primary assistant looks up expectantly, smiling brightly. "Sorry to have to leave you like this. Take a break and enjoy the food—try not to get buried under all this."

"Yes'sir, Boss!" The silver-haired man saluted. "Are you sure you don't require my assistance with this mission?"

Something curled in his gut, and he was halfway through saying yes, if only to quell his paranoia, but took another look at the papers strewn across the floor of his office and decided against it. "That's alright. Take care of things while I'm gone. If Hibari drops in while I'm out, _don't_ tell him where I've gone." Pulling himself together, the young man loosened his tie and heaved a sigh.

What a pain in the ass.

_Why the __**hell**__ did Verde get involved with something on that side of the world? And in Rhode Island again, of all places?_ It was too much to be coincidental, but now that he'd promised Reborn, he had to fulfill his duty. He stopped by his room to put his contacts in for a moment, make sure he had at least five pills, and put his mittens into the pocket of his pants before heading out to the jet together with someone that seemed to always be waiting by the airstrip for him, regardless of whether he called ahead or not.

x

It was a day he'd had the night shift, and he'd left the house in something of a sour mood, his young daughter beginning to fight with him, albeit over trivialities, but it was tiresome nonetheless. In the time he'd been serving his various beats here, nothing spectacular, besides the Alvaretti case well over two years ago had happened under his jurisdiction. Richardson had gone and gotten married just recently, and was a swooning, borderline annoying father-in-law. But he was mostly pleasant, and Gothard could not find much to complain about while working with him.

Springer had been relocated some time ago to Michigan, and no one had asked why, but most had assumed that she had family matters to take care of. As that had happened, the new D.A., Charles McCoy, held all of them at much tighter leashes, but the upside to his management was that he also deigned to listen to them a lot more, as he'd come from New York, and this state was very different than one he'd come from.

Now, though, it seemed the joking and goofy Richardson had something to talk about, and it made Gothard stop thinking about this paperwork and his family at home for a moment, because of how very morose he seemed. "News." When he looked like that, and he said that, it couldn't only mean that he'd found something about that Sato kid. "Turns out, there was some reporter of ours hanging out in Sicily for some reason, says he knows something about a real notorious group on that side, clam or something. Harris, the guy, said this drunk was just goin' on and on about how hard they worked him over there, a bunch a kids leadin' this old place. Might be worth looking in to."

It wasn't much, but it was a lead—a fair one. They'd looked anywhere they could've, and this stroke of luck just might've been the key they needed to follow up and find the kid Gothard had been blindly chasing for years now. "Thanks. Anything else?"

"Well, it's not much," Richardson was shaving his beard more closely these days, looking out for the kids of his wife, worried about how they'd perceive him if he looked like a bum. "There's this shady scientist, sorta rough lookin' bastard, and they say he's been creepin' with Scott's boys." Since Alvaretti had been arrested and successfully incarcerated, Ryan Scott had moved in from the west side of Rhode Island and came closer to Providence. He wasn't much to start off—a couple of petty thefts, car accidents, overdue payments. But now, it seemed he was playing with fire—sexual assaults, heroin, and illegal gambling circles kept quietly under some big name restaurants he was affiliated with. They'd been looking to catch him, but they were tightly knit, and someone knew what they were doing in there now, because they eluded arrest well. Perhaps this doctor had been an influence on them? It made sense, because Scott himself was an idiot. For the past couple of months while they'd come into their own, no one had been able to identify their cause for change, but this was promising. "Public housing, though—gonna be tough to get a warrant to get in there and break up any sort of meeting they were planning on having."

"I'll find a way," Gothard knew a few judges in the area, and knew how to set a fire under them, especially. He figured it wouldn't be much of a problem. "Let's see what we can do."

So for the next week or so, they worked on getting all the legalities squared away, and make it to this place, hiding in an empty apartment on good faith of the owner of the place. But they'd also had to promise to pay any damages inflicted there, which had resulted in a swift verbal attack from McCoy, but also a hurried push for him to get out there and nail the guys, so that their need to pay the fines would be worth it. They'd gotten subtle cameras hidden in there, to see what was going on as well as hear. The goons filed in first, some of them sticking near the door, all of them with weapons. Then came the big ones—Scott, his best sniper, Fields, and Reid, the bulky African male that spoke very little and got a lot done. They'd started speaking in low voices about nothing in particular, growing impatient before their monitors fizzled out and an unfamiliar voice joined theirs. It must've been that doctor. "We're being watched," He'd told them, and Gothard cursed under his breath. But before they could make a break for it, and the police could start chasing after them, it seemed someone else had come. Gothard quietly commanded his men to stand at attention, where they went into hiding and prepared to rush the door.

"Well, well, hadn't expected to see you here," The one Gothard presumes is the doctor says to their newly arrived guest.

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly want to be here either," Now _that_ was a voice he truly hadn't expected to hear here at all.

In a rush of emotion, he commanded his men to go ahead and surround them. Brown eyes seemed to roll impatiently, and widened for a moment to see him again. "Hold your fire! I want these men captured alive!"

"You just _had_ to come to America," Sato, the brunette felt indignant. "Sorry to break up your fun, but I've gotta take you back home."

"Oy! You can't do that!" Scott got aggravated. "We need 'im and his machines to do business! We're giving you a fortune for this!"

"I'm afraid that none of you, even though I've given you quite a fair bit of enhancement, would stand a chance against this young man," The doctor—he was even in his lab coat—wore glasses and looked messy, shirt hanging out of his trousers, glasses askew, and five-o'clock shadow prominent on his jaw, was saying these words, not to be cruel, but to be realistic. "I regret to terminate our agreement so hurriedly, but I'd rather avoid a losing battle."

"I want you all to drop your weapons and come quietly! Rhode Island Police Department, you're under arrest!" Gothard said the words firmly over them, but distinctly got the impression that no one was listening.

"I ain't got no reason to listen to a kid!" Scott charged at the brunette, fists surprisingly red, and Gothard started having his men get in there to try and catch them all, but before he could really get a good chance to blink, everyone that had gone into that room was now on the ground, and the young brunette seemed to be partly on fire.

"I tried to warn you," The doctor said, holding up his hands in surrender. "Well, we both know I'm not the fighting type, so let's go, Vongola."

"I told you not to call me that," The boy's eyes were almost orange, and when bullets—a wide array of them—started frantically flying his way, he threw up a wall of that fire and melted all of the ammunition. He grabbed the doctor and haphazardly threw him over his shoulder, which was no small feat.

"Shoot! Shoot!" Gothard commanded, as soon as they'd started running, and was shocked into gaping when he started flying away. The streaks of orange melted into the sky, and he and his men were aghast, but didn't forget their initial reason for coming here. After coming back to himself, the policeman told his men to get in there and cuff Scott and his boys, determining that he could question them at a later time, when things made more sense.

x

"Well _done_," Someone congratulated him as he walked away from the scene of panic and uproar. "You _are_ getting delightfully ruthless these days."

He groaned and shifted the doctor from off of his back, but didn't take his eye off of the slippery bastard. "I told everyone not to tell you where I was."

"I hate this country," The other man, taller, sharper, told him before knocking Verde out and carrying him under his arm. "You know why I'm here, however."

"Pretty much the _only_ thing you ever agree to help come do missions for, or clean up, if we're not in Japan," Tsuna groaned. He'd probably been informed just after he left that the brunette would be here, and if he was here, that meant those 'machines' Verde had left with Scott's gang were probably nothing more than trash now. The brunette couldn't be bothered to argue, though—it meant less work for him, but it also meant he'd have to fight his guardian for hours upon end, as pay. "I'm too tired for this shit. Let me guess—the Foundation's been keeping tabs on those guys too."

"One of their partners was right under my nose. So, of course, I obliterated them," The once-prefect smirked, looking altogether too pleased with himself. His bird was chirping happily next to the car they discretely slid into. "I'm proud of you, taking a mission so close to the spotlight. Of course, that makes my job that much harder."

"Alright, I get it! I'll fight you—_twice_, even—when we get to Namimori. Just let me call Gokudera so he doesn't freak out and wonder why I'm not back home tomorrow." The brunette briefly made his phone call before slumping against the window. "I just want to sleep for a week. Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes," Hibari commented blithely, and chuckled when his so-called boss groaned. Verde was forcibly snoozing next to them until they made it to a quiet airstrip, boarded the jet, and then went on their way back to a holding facility in Japan, close to their base there.

x

"You didn't snap a picture?" Richardson clicked his tongue against his teeth and snapped his fingers disappointedly. "It's a damn shame I couldn't be there! But what you're telling me—it sounds like something out of a movie."

"I know," Gothard responded, looking weary. "Of course, I reported as much as I could to McCoy, without sounding like I was off my rocker." He couldn't figure out any way in which his job would allow him to pursue this trail, not without the suits running in and taking it over, or without someone on the force cutting him off. "Hey, Rich, how d'you feel about goin' up in the place?"

His partner raised an eyebrow. "Go on?"

"I've got something big. Bigger than maybe we ever could've imagined. I'm gonna talk to McCoy and Springer. They asked me if I wanted to be promoted a couple months back, and now, well, I think I'm gonna take 'em up on that offer. I've gotta find out more about this Sato kid, before something really crazy breaks out, and gets away from us."

Richardson whistled and clapped him hard on the back. "Well, who can say no to that fuckin' face? I was just thinkin' I could use some more funds, for the kids."

Gothard is genuinely thankful for his acceptance. "We might not be gettin' any more sleep, but we might catch a gang bigger than we've ever laid eyes on before." They busied themselves, and immediately, the shorter and stockier of the two men made phone calls. He decided to call McCoy first, getting the feeling that Springer, in her new location, wouldn't hold nearly as much sway as his current superior would.

x

"_You listen to me,"_ _The brunette spoke quietly, calmly, but his emotions were far from reserved. The room was full of wanted men, and it was rare that all of them could gather like this, as they had their own business to attend to, and on top of that, most of them didn't like him, for whatever reason. "As far as the world is concerned, all of us died in that most recent war. And outside of the underworld, I'd like to keep it that way."_

"_Awww, how sweet," It was the white-haired mischievous leader of the Gesso family, not much older than the Japanese young man holding this conference. "And why, exactly, should we do that? It's every family's business to decide how notorious or inconspicuous we are."_

"_I never said everyone had to stay hidden under the radar—just these individuals," The leader spared a moment to glare at him, feeling especially wary of this particular rival of his. On the electronic monitor, his own picture, Byakuran's, the arcobalenos', the Kozart allegiance's members, and more were featured, with some of the most high profile people emboldened. "My reason? There was a recent turf-war, with varied families aligned. Of course, all of us gathered here know what truly happened, and how time's fluidity continues to change our landscape. All I propose is that we keep the police, from digging further into what happened—__**both**__ times." The matters he was alluding to included the Inheritance ceremony, now more than three years past, and the 'war-that-wasn't', between the Millefiore and the Vongola. Either way, unwanted attention had been attracted at these times, and if they were rumored to be dead, there was no reason not to take advantage of the situation. "My guess is, they're going to find out that we're alive eventually, especially since we'll all continue to be doing our business, but if we can throw them off the trail, for now, we'll continue on our ways without being bothered by the police, at least for the next couple of years."_

"_And the punishment for getting caught?" This time it was Enma, who looked supportive of his decision, but wary of just the sheer amount of people on that list._

"_Well, there's nothing of that sort, but let's just say it won't be pretty," Tsunayoshi finished, looking haggard. "Now, are there any other questions, or can we all get out of here and pretend to be dead for a while?"_

x

Three more years had passed in a flash, leaving Gothard and Richardson exhausted from all the pushing and ass kissing they'd done to get here. Now they were the suits they'd spent so much time mocking, and it was a thousand times more active than simple vice patrols. They'd been so busy acclimatizing themselves to the new environment that they'd hardly had the time to pursue their true interest, namely a one Touya Sato. But it seemed their department chair had some vested interest in it as well.

Now, some time later, he'd come rushing into their conjoined office, looking flustered. "Gothard, Richardson. You two come meet me, and gather a team. I think we've got something."

They leapt out of their chairs and called for the two women and one man they trusted the most, hoping against all odds that this would be the huge push for them. Their wives had been happy for their promotions initially, but of course were a little sore that their husbands now spent so much more time at work, supposedly chasing these dead ends. But now—now they'd have something to show for their efforts.

When the conference room was filled, and their boss, Jeff Yates, closed and locked the door behind them, he gathered himself up. "If you're here, it means all of you fine ladies and gents have seen something you probably shouldn't have," He begins solemnly before pressing on. "And you've decided to stick it out and follow your instincts, for the sake of our citizens, and the pursuit of justice." Gothard knew it was silly, but he held some pride, and even the little things helped reinforce that he'd picked the right career after all. "Today, my friends, let's talk about Japan."

Immediately, people in the room thought of everything that reminded them of the country—those old martial arts flicks, featuring samurai and ninja. Geishas, codes of honor, and the strict calm with which they held themselves. Japan.

"I regret to inform you that an agent of ours died there recently. A moment of silence," Yates said, and everyone winced before doing so. After their brief pause, he continued. "But we won't let his work go to waste. What he found, well, let's say that if we can make something out of this, we'll all go home with gold stars on our lapels." Up on the screen, there was nothing but a hand picking up a bloodied ring, small, tan, and indistinguishable from anything else, but the ring itself was rather distinctive, and it was a photograph—their first piece of concrete evidence in some time. It had been after this that their agent had been compromised, but made sure to electronically send it to someone and discard his phone, before he was captured and probably killed.

Richardson was the first to look up from his notepad, where he'd been jotting down the description of it, committing to memory. "Do we know to whom it belongs, or perhaps, from what country it hails?"

"Well, nothing concrete. Anyone I could even get to start lookin' at the piece a work couldn't tell me much, from the picture, 'cept that stone in the middle is agate—fire stone from Brazil. Its' owner was in Japan with our agent, which is why we're starting there."

"Any meaning behind the dragon?" It was carved into the ring carefully, and the workmanship showed that it was no cheap number. Gothard didn't know much about precious stones or metals, but even he wagered that it was something closer to platinum than silver.

"Yeah—search we ran said there was some group in Italy, with a mark like that, but they went down years ago. Thing is, we might be able to stick it to someone _from_ that family. He's currently affiliated with some other group from his home country." Yates did spare a moment to grimace, however. "There's _also_ the nasty business of the Vendice, though—seems he's been in trouble with them, but that was more than ten years ago now." Everyone around the world knew the name of that particular enforcement group, and it was no laughing matter to try and ruin them. In fact, it wasn't worth trying. If they could nab this unknown guy, they could've made huge leaps and bounds in their investigation.

"So, who's the guy? Don't tell me you only called us about this ring, sir," Jones, the woman who worked directly with Richardson, asked the question they all had on their minds.

"More than just that. Tanimoto, our insider, played a big part in getting someone arrested over there, and they were an American citizen. Turns out, this kid's headed our way in just a few short hours, so hope you're all ready to see what we can get." At that, everyone got up and scrambled to their stations, hurrying to get ready for the stakeout. Some of them would have their ears pressed to radios to listen in, and others would be doing the actual investigation, but all of them were immediately on edge.

Gothard was one of the lucky three to even be in the building when Marco got taken in, and hoped optimistically that he'd have something worthwhile to say. Yates and his second-in-command, Phillips, grilled him for all the standard information first—about his personal crimes overseas, and how he'd even gotten beyond the tight security of Japan. Why he'd been found at such a scene, and how it'd been cleaned up so neatly. But most of all, why it seemed like he was affiliated with them, but upon later recognition had just been their lucky break—an unsuspecting goon from a rival organization with loose lips.

Before he got tired of answering questions and while they had him on the hot seat, Phillips pushed the photograph towards him. "You know who this belongs to?" The black man was tall and stern, but softhearted underneath his exterior.

"Yeah, I know 'im," Marco snorted. "Hell, every two-bit criminal knew the guy, but he's been dead for years now."

Phillips and Yates tried to contain themselves, and Gothard was the one to cautiously speak. "You know, we could negotiate things with you, but only if you can help us out here."

"You bastards couldn't do enough to me to make me tell you that," He laughed incredulously. "Whether you set me free or locked me up, I'd be dead or in Vindice, and Christ knows I ain't going there. You suits better lock me up tight—honestly, you're risking _your_ necks just to bring me here."

"I take it you won't be talking, then," Yates shakes his head and sighs. "We could protect you from them, Marco."

Marco smiled. "With all due respect, sir, nobody could protect me from them." And with that, he was taken to his new cell, in northside Rhode Island. As the FBI agents were coming out, they whispered among themselves.

"Seems like we're at a loss yet again, boys." Gothard was disappointed, but something told him this was exactly what he needed—a reminder that he was getting closer. This time, they'd missed things by a hair, and he felt like those fingers were something.

x

When the folder was dropped on his desk and he saw that photo, he spit his drink out in the face of the sheepish and unprepared teen's face.

"Why the hell _did you wear my ring_?" The brunette was furious, but more so with himself for leaving it within reach. "Get out—get _out!_" Lambo hurried out of the office, eyes watery, upset that he'd managed to piss his boss if in such a manner. The brunette groaned and put his face to the desk as his tutor slipped in. "Reborn…I need a drink."

"It's too early in the morning for that," The hitman reprimanded him with a click of his tongue. "But, I agree."

Gokudera burst in, to both of their annoyances, shouting the news and badmouthing their younger companion, until Tsuna dismissed him, giving more work than he'd be able to complete before the day was out, wanting to be left alone for the moment. "Has anyone called Mukuro and Chrome yet?"

"Last I checked, Mukuro was in the rainforest somewhere, and Chrome was in Great Britain, but neither of them are answering phone calls, so I'm guessing they're somewhere quiet." More like they were undercover, and they wouldn't appear until the brunette was comfortable in his bed and half asleep, scaring him half to death.

"We've got to clean this up before the press gets a hold of it, which means we clean things up _now_. Where's Mammon? Fran? I'm gonna need one really _great_ illusionist, along with a team full of crappy ones."

"Narita, and Rome, for some reason. Let me call him. Working with him is always tiring, but he does his job better than most. You call the rest of the goons."

"Alright, fine. I'll get the flight worked out too. But if I can't have liquor, I'm gonna have a cup of coffee. I just want one day—not even a full one, just a few hours—where there's no incident. That's all I fucking want."

Reborn smirked and ruffled his hair. "Fat damn chance."

Tsuna groaned. "Fuck."

x

Gothard and his men watched their day turn from bad to worse in a matter of hours. He'd been having a rollercoaster of an afternoon, what with Yates' news, their once again dead-end investigation, and now, suddenly, they'd come face to face with exactly whom he'd been looking for, and he could do nothing but gape, his attempt to scream stifled by some strange feeling in the back of his mind. Things went black, but he didn't feel the car come to a screeching halt, and the next time he opened his eyes, it was to a dim room, with two men that he could see—and one of them was his mark.

"Sato!" He called, voice hoarse. The response was slow, but the brunette stopped talking to the other male—a little shorter than him, with a vibrantly teal hair and a frog hat. "You fucking piece of work. Someone's gonna find us—we're FBI agents!"

"Already thought about that," Sato said, sounding just as tired as he felt. "There's a team of illusionists keeping them from finding out. After all, as far as they know, you all have already come back. Has the medicine set in for that one, yet?"

"Not yet, sir," The younger kid responded in an apathetic tone, not entirely respectful or disrespectful. "Want me to hit him up next?"

"Nah, wait a few. After all, this is our third time meeting. I figure we should talk for a bit before I send him back on a wild goose chase looking for me." The brunette crouched next to him and smiled amicably, the bags under his eyes apparent to the man. "Well, well. This sorta feels like a birthday present. We met for the first time when I was twenty-three, I suppose, and now I've just turned twenty-eight. Things were a real mess. I'm actually sort of surprised you remembered it so well, what with the past changing the future so much, but I guess some things never change."

Gothard was bewildered, hardly believing what he was hearing. "Sato…who the hell _are_ you?"

"Ugh, I hate that stupid fake name. Fran, remind me to bitch at Reborn about that. 'Touya Sato'. A name like that is so generic, it hurts." He seemed to be toying with him now, but the policeman was so loopy that he could do nothing more than try to focus his gaze and listen very carefully. "Hey look, on the off chance that you remember anything about this encounter, that's nowhere near my real name—of course, I'm not really supposed to tell anyone that; I promised, after all. I'm supposed to be dead. If the medicine and Fran do what they're supposed to, you probably won't even know what you had for breakfast. Sort of a shame. You've been looking so hard for me. I hate to make your job so difficult, but if I didn't, I'd be the one with my ass in the fire."

"You din't…answer the quest'n," Gothard slurred, watching as the teen did something to his teammates, and they all fell into an unquestioning slumber, as though hypnotized. When he'd finished, he seemed to be waiting nearby for further instruction.

"Who, me? Well, that's highly classified information," The brunette seemed to laugh at himself for that. "Never thought I'd actually be saying that, but that's truth enough."

"Why're they so…scared of you?" He meant a lot more by that question, but as dry as his throat was, and as conflicted as his thoughts were, it was all the man could choke out at the time.

"Mmm, more like, they're scared of my group in general, and their reputation, more than anything. I'm probably not too scary by myself. I'm a pretty normal guy, you know. I just want to go home and relax at the end of the day too." Fran, the teal-haired kid, snorted from what felt like a far distance away. "Well, seeing as I'd like to do just that, I'll have to bring our chat to a close. Mukuro'd be proud of me. I think I pulled a bit of his schtick there, gossiping with the enemy. If you'd be so kind, Fran."

"Of course, sir," The kid's hands pulsed with some sort of practically tangible indigo energy, and the brunette administered the medicine he'd mentioned before into his veins before pulling something else out and healing any sign of a puncture wound.

The next time he woke up, there was no record of anything about them back at FBI headquarters, not that he would've known otherwise. The picture was gone, their names, false or otherwise, had disappeared, and as far as Gothard was concerned, he had his daughter's tennis tournament to watch in the next couple of days. Something itched at the back of his skull that he was supposed to be doing something else, but when he'd come home for the evening, happier than ever, his wife asked if something had been successful in the case he often mentioned, and he simply said that nothing had happened, and that was the beauty in it. Marie had raised an eyebrow, but was pleased when he complimented her dinner, and praised his daughter's academics.

x

"Turns out, they had information on Lancia, probably perceived from the ring. I'll have to see to it that the Varia is a little more thorough in their bookkeeping next time." Tsuna flopped into his chair without ceremony, happy to see Yamamoto as he passed through, stopping to help him, Reborn, Futa, and Gokudera with some of the evening's paperwork. "And can we _please_ change my name to something a little less glaringly obvious than Touya Sato? I mean, really?"

Reborn smirked. "I knew you'd say that, so of course the answer's no." Tsuna groaned and signed away his life to yet another piece of paper. "But at least you didn't break your own word from that conference. I think Byakuran's the only one that's had such a close call other than you."

"Who cares?! The boss is home, free, and miles away from the dreadful, freezing coast of that northeastern American state!" Gokudera asserted, and Tsuna agreed, even if the place had slowly but surely begun growing on him.

Yamamoto grinned, reading through the report at a casual pace. "Well, it was fun while it lasted. I kept worrying that something crazy would happen every time you went over there."

"Something crazy _did_ happen every time I went over there," Tsuna rolled his eyes and added another paper to the finished stack, just before Reborn put all of his there as well. "My gut tells me it's not really the end of it, either."

"Next time, I'll go over there and kill anyone that even _thinks_ about taking you in beforehand, Boss!" Gokudera said loudly, to which Yamamoto and Reborn laughed in response, and Tsuna tried to melt into his seat with apprehension, telling him over and over again that such an extremity was unnecessary.

x

It would be two weeks before Gothard found anything amiss in his daily life, when he'd been cleaning his bathroom and found a note taped to the back of his toilet. In a backwards script he'd devised to leave notes for himself years ago, he read two words—names, by the look of them.

_Sato, Touya_. He frowned to look at it, and set it alight, determining to ask Yates and Richardson about the name when he got in for the day. But something about it made him feel like he'd seen or heard the name before. "Honey," He called down the stairs of their home. "I'm headed in to work early—there's something I want to check on."

"Be careful, officer," She teased, and he grinned, as he always did at this little joke of theirs, just before heading out of the door and driving off to work.

* * *

The brunette read the inquiry printed on the piece of paper in bold—_Who in the world is Touya Sato?—_but rather than getting frustrated and throwing the folder into the fire immediately, he grinned and made a phone call. He was even lucky enough to catch the other man off guard, half asleep on the other side of the world. "So, Reborn, since you're already in the Caribbean," He began, feeling vindictive. "How'd you like to do me a favor?"

There's a pause for a moment before the hitman hisses and responds. "I'm starting to hate how well I've trained you." He sighs and grumbles blearily. "Something tells me this mission's going to suck ass, and it deals with the Rhode Island Police Department."

"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" With that, the young boss hangs up, and personally sets the file folder alight, wishing for a speedy execution of this mission by the finest hitman he knew. He kicked his feet up, poured himself a drink, and decided he'd take the rest of the afternoon off, in retribution.


End file.
